Regnum Mari
by Within the Madding Crowd
Summary: L/BB. The ever pondersome query - is Beyond's break from reality caused by his obsession or his inability to act against it?


_A/N: _Hello, all! I cannot thank you enough for the praise that "Malum in Se" received!!!! XDDD thank you all SOOOOO much! *sends out hugs to everyone who alerted, faved, and reviewed*

Here's my second story, and I'm rather proud of this little piece of insanity which I bring to you.... ^.^ it's actually a story I wrote QUITE some time ago, yet recently edited the hell out of in order to fit the LxB requirements (e.g. making the main character more insane, etc).

_regnum mari_ = Latin for "kingdom by the sea." yes, I took the phrase from E.A. Poe's "Annabelle Lee" and translated it. (never trust online Latin translators, people. if you can do it yourself, do it. if you can't, get someone to do it for you. online translators are WRONG the majority of the time. the reason being is that they'll mix feminine nouns with masculine adjectives sometimes, and you just can't do that. adjectives HAVE to agree in number and gender. yeah, sorry. /rant)

.... anyway, it is titled thus because I took the line from E.A. Poe's poem out of context and made the "kingdom by the sea" into a metaphor for a fanciful place (i.e. a place within one's imagination). in this story, Beyond lives within his mind and knows nothing outside of it.

**Warning(s):** um.... implied character death, needles, implied copulation of the homosexual variety, and mass usage of the nickname "Lawli" because when writing in Beyond's perspective (or RPing as Beyond), I always have him call L "Lawli." always. I just **DO.** unless he's excessively pissed, under which condition he will use the name "Lawliet." but I digress.

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I'm not the stereotypical politician, so I suck at lying. therefore, I'm not even going to _begin_ to say that I own Death Note or any of the characters; I won't get away with it.

now that all that's over with.... I hope you all enjoy this! or, at least, somewhat like it. ^.~ so, without further ado...

* * *

_"To the person in the bell jar... the world itself  
__is a bad dream. A bad dream. I remembered everything..."  
- Sylvia Plath (1932-1963), _The Bell Jar

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Do you know how it feels when there's something there, and you want to touch it, but it's not tangible? It's as though you're reaching out to it as far as you possibly can, but every inch, every centimeter you get closer, it seems to move miles away from you. It simply drifts away, just like a leaf being blown in a cool, crisp, autumn breeze. And there's nothing you can do to stop it, no matter how hard you want to; no matter how hard you try.

Have you ever experienced being so utterly obsessed with someone that you have come very close to losing contact with all of reality – that you start envisioning that person everywhere about you and that the shrinks start saying you're schizophrenic? Has that ever happened to you? Has your heart ever started racing to the speed of a bullet at the mere thought or the _mention_ of a person's name? It's as though, when you think about this person about whom your mind forms a never-ending labyrinth, you cannot _stand_ the mere thought of the person – physically and mentally. It's as though thinking of your infatuation – your idol, your obsession, your god – is a drug. It's like the best acid trip imaginable, yet at the same time, it's better than acid.

It's as though when someone merely _mentions_ the person's name, you are sent into a fit of hysterics, and your vision is made to go black – yet you don't see darkness. Behind your closed eyelids, you see every color of the visible spectrum clearly cut and spliced into its own individual segment – yet they blend into each other at the same time. And it's as though your obsession's name is not a product of any language of this era; it's as though it is a remnant of the most perfect and original language of the days of Adam and Eve; eternal vigil must be kept over it, and it must be preserved for all future posterity.

And as much as you love the person about whom you're obsessed, it's as though you have an infatuation of the most horrible kind with something intangible, because your obsession never visits you. He treats you as though you are the epitome of the Bubonic Plague – the epitome of death. Because of this, you are doomed to be perpetually alone. At least, until night falls…

Has this ever happened to you?

Well, I can say that I have experienced all of that. Furthermore, I am _currently_ experiencing it, and I highly doubt it will ever leave me. I get injected with tranquilizers almost every day because I swear that he visits me every night, and I go psychotic when he leaves me. I swear that he comes; it's not a hallucination, and it's damned well _not_ schizophrenia; he is _not_ a figment of my imagination, damnit, I _know_ what is real and what isn't!

I got released from the hospital a week ago. The usual discourse took place; papers were signed, my roommate swore up and down that "he'll take his medicine, don't worry," and I did nothing but stare blankly at the psychiatrist who was only reluctantly allowing me to leave.

I don't care what those doctors say. They don't know. They never will. All I know is that part of me is dead. I wonder if he cares.

******

"You just don't understand, do you?" my roommate, Integra, asks me. She's sitting next to me on the bed trying to gain my attention, but it's not working. I can hear her speaking, and I can look at her sitting beside me, but my attention isn't on her.

Her hands are on her knees, and she's clutching onto them so hard that her knuckles are almost turning white. "What you see _isn't _real. It's as the doctors say… do you just refuse to believe that? It's not real! It's a conjecture of your mind! You need to get over yourself and face the facts. I hate to tell you this, Beyond, but he'll most likely never see you of his own accord. Shit, you've been in and out of prisons for inhumane murders… and _now_ you've been in and out of an asylum! I hate to break it to you, but I think that killing and having him arrest you are probably the only ways for you to get his attention. And you have _an illness,_ Beyond." Then there was a slight pause, a sigh, before, "… Beyond? Are you even _listening_ to me?"

She must have noticed my blank look.

I turn my head forward and just stare ahead of myself, not looking at her anymore. I'm not able to do anything except stare at the wall in front of me; it's as though I'm completely paralyzed. Integra has tried "reaching me" numerous times, but it never works. I'm surprised that she's still going at it after all this time.

Then, I slowly turn my head towards Integra and just look blankly at her – my eyes emotionless. Her eyes are pleading to make me understand, but they're also full of irritation because she knows I won't. I never will.

"You're wrong," I say in a silent voice. "It's not the only way. And he _does_ visit me."

"Damnit, Beyond!" Integra yells, making me wince a little. "L DOES NOT VISIT YOU!!! And it is the only way because do you ever see him coming about otherwise?" Her voice is a mixture of frustration and the horrible sound of defeat. I can hear her voice shake, and, even though I don't look up, I know that there are hot, salty tears already forming in her eyes.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I retort angrily, shooting a menacing glare at my roommate. I try hard to not allow tears to form in my own eyes. "YOU'RE _WRONG!"_

Integra is standing beside the bed, and out of the corner of my eye I can see that her fists are clenched. If I didn't know her better, I'd think she was stopping himself from hitting me. But I do know her, and she'd never hit me. Even if she wanted to, she'd never hit me.

But then she's storming out of my room, and I am by myself again… alone… without anyone.

Here I am, sitting in the dark, on my bed – the sheets dusty from not having been washed in God only knows how long. I know there are random articles of clothing scattered throughout the room – on the floor, on the bed. This place hasn't been cleaned in at least three weeks, if not more. Most of that time I've just sat here, leaning against my bed and staring at nothing in particular. I don't even remember the last time I left this room.

I lean back and put my head on my pillows, taking a deep breath. It feels like it's the most I've moved in weeks, and it pains my lungs. Usually my breathing is just shallow; taking that deep breath causes my lungs to burn like fire.

******

Then I sit up again, and I can see a figure sitting beside me. His fingers rest lightly on top of my left arm, and his eyes are searching mine. It's as though they're staring straight through me, right to the other side. There are tears in his eyes that begin running down his cheeks, and I lift my hand up to gently brush them away. He reaches his hand up to his cheek and places his hand over mine. I can't help but stare. My eyes stare into his eyes.... his beautiful eyes; his beautiful, endless obsidian eyes that are glistening.

… And for what is he crying? Guilt?

"Lawli?" I whisper hoarsely, and I blink. "You're not real. You're not real," I mumble, more to myself than anyone else. I keep trying to convince myself of this, because it's what Integra and the doctors keep telling me to do. But for some reason, I can't believe it. They're wrong… they're all wrong. All of them. I know they are. They have to be. Don't they?

He slaps me harshly, and my face whips to the side, tears starting to burn my eyes and gush out like waterfalls. Hot, salty tears start streaming down my cheeks, the right of which stings where he slapped it; it burns as though it had been covered in pitch, lit with a match, and set aflame.

"You felt that, did you not?" he asks, his eyes now burning a hole straight through me like strong acid burns through metal. "Would you be able to feel that if I were not real?" he asks harshly. "If I slapped you and I were not real, you would not be able to feel it." I look up at him, and his face is blurry… blurred through the tears that are clouding over my eyes.

"You left," I whisper. "You left all of us at Wammy's. And… and now we're on opposite ends of the world. And you won't see me…" I can feel myself beginning to choke up. "Even when you arrest me, you won't see me!" I am sobbing now. "You send the order from halfway across the fucking world, damnit! And…" My voice now reaches a softer level, almost as though I'm resigning to all of this. "I don't mind. Because at least it's some form of attention."

His face and eyes soften, but he refrains from commenting; he keeps his eyes on mine and lifts his hand up to my cheek to brush away my tears. I put my hand over his and hold it there; I don't want to let go. I don't want _him_ to let go.

"I am back," he says softly. "I promise. You won't have to resort to murder in order to gain my attention." I'm staring at his face again, and it looks so real that I know that the others are wrong when they say that he doesn't exist anymore; I _know_ that they're wrong. They _have_ to be wrong. There's no other way about it.

Suddenly, I find that I am falling into his chest and wrapping my arms about his neck as tightly as I can. And he embraces me back. Our foreheads press against each other until he leans in towards me, and I lean in towards him, and both of us close our eyes as our lips brush against each others'. And I'm clinging to him and falling back against the bed, pulling him on top of me, and we're all of a sudden nothing but a mixture of clothing and limbs.

And soon, we're not even a mixture of clothing anymore, because we get rid of it. Then I'm sweating, and I can feel his lips at my neck and his hands running over my chest, and meanwhile I'm scraping my fingernails down his back as I find that my vision has suddenly become clearer than ever before; I was blind, and I can now see… and I can see in _color_, and beyond color, and even beyond that… and it's incredible, and words cannot begin to explain it.

… And I know that the doctors are wrong.

"I love you, Beyond," he whispers into my ear, panting slightly. At this, I nearly stop breathing. I gasp.

"I… I… I love you, t-too, Lawli," I reply, my voice merely a pant lost to thousands of others which I can easily say that _he_ caused.

A rather long moment of silence ensues before he grabs my hand to pull me up. After we successfully get off the bed and dress back in our trousers, he grabs my hand again and drags me towards the mirror.

"Look at yourself," he says, nodding his head at the mirror, at my reflection. "You are quite a mess." I can feel my cheeks heating up with embarrassment as I look at my reflection. The last time I showered must have been last week, and I notice that I have lost a considerable amount of weight. I look down at the floor and think. Everything is the way it's been ever since I started getting these visits.

I lift up my head and look at my reflection again; it doesn't disappoint me. I am a mess, after all, and it's not only on the outside.

But then fear begins to take a strong grip on my heart because I don't see his reflection.

"Lawli?" I ask, turning towards him.

But the room is empty; there's nobody there; he's gone.

"Lawli!" I yell in panic. It hurts my throat to yell; it stings. Panic is running through my veins like blood; it's gushing through my body until every single square inch of me is drowning in the deep, dark waters of fear. "Lawli?!" I dash around the room, tearing sheets from the bed; throwing clothes, pillows, everything out of my way. I can barely hear someone yell my name, and then I can hear rattling at the door. Evidently, someone's trying to open it, but I don't care.

"LAWLI!" I scream, crying hysterically. "No! Come back! Don't leave me! Please, _please_ don't leave me again! You promised you were back, and now you're gone?! DON'T DO THIS TO ME, DAMNIT!" My legs give way beneath me and I fall, my knees hitting the cold, hard, rosewood floor. Sobs are wracking my body. "PLEASE!" I scream, turning into a mass of sweat and tears and clothes on the floor.

Finally, whoever was knocking at the door got in. Whoever it is takes my arm, and I look up. It's Integra. I can see her mouth is moving, but I can't hear any noise coming out. I quickly get out of her tight grip and begin crawling frantically about the room, sobbing hysterically. I stop crawling when I reach the center of the floor.

I then feel a needle being shoved into my forearm; it burns as though someone had poured kerosene on my arm and lit it ablaze. I immediately recognize the less-than-pleasant sensation as the medicine that Integra often gives me.

Soon, everything about me begins spinning. The room and everything in it are no longer separate from each other; everything starts to blur together until I can no longer distinguish the bed from the ceiling, or the desk from the window. And I, myself, feel as though I am spinning quicker and quicker as time ticks by – but, at the same time, I feel as though I am going nowhere; spinning round and round and round… yet not moving at all. My mind seems to have escaped me; everything in my head is like a torrent of white noise, none of it being at all discernable.

Then, nearly as suddenly as it had all started, everything stops. The spinning comes to an abrupt halt, and the dark abyss of loud static within my mind is silenced. And soon, everything begins fading to black as I hear L's voice softly quoting Franz Kafka in my head. "The meaning of Life is that it stops."

_~ Finis ~_


End file.
